Halfway to the Grave with Exclusive Bonus Material

by Jeaniene Frost

  “My looks?” Outrage filled my voice. How dare a dead man critique me? “What’s wrong with my looks?”

  Bones smiled condescendingly. “Oh, nothing horribly wrong, but still something that needs fixing before we send you out.”

  “You—”

  “After all, we’re going after some big fish, luv. Baggy jeans and a mediocre appearance won’t cut it. You wouldn’t know sexy if it bit you in the arse.”

  “By God, I am going to—”

  “Quit blathering. Didn’t you want to call your mum? Come with me. My cell phone’s in the back.”

  Mentally I performed all sorts of tortuous acts on his bound and helpless body, but in reality I bit my tongue and followed him deeper into the cave.

  Chapter Four

  HARD TRAINING. THOSE WERE THE WORDS HE used to describe the brutal, agonizing, death-defying ordeals even the military wouldn’t inflict on their most hardened troops.

  Bones ran me through the forest at speeds cars couldn’t sustain. I stumbled over fallen trees, rocks, roots, and natural potholes until I was too exhausted to even vomit. Passing out didn’t excuse me from my tasks, either. He’d simply keep dousing icy water on my face until I came to again. I practiced throwing knives until my knuckles cracked and bled. His response? To uncaringly toss me some Neosporin and tell me not to get it on my palms or it would ruin my grip. His version of weight lifting? Hefting stone boulders repeatedly, gradually increasing their size and density. StairMaster? That would be climbing up the cave inclines with large rocks strapped to my back.

  After one week, I threw off all of his artificial impediments and refused to go farther, stating had I known his intentions beforehand I would have gladly chosen death. Bones just smiled at me with his fangs extended and told me to prove it. Seeing that he was serious, I reapplied my outfittings and trudged wearily onward.

  By far, though, the most grueling activity was up close with him. He stretched my limbs until tears poured down my face, chiding me all the while for my lack of flexibility. Then, during our hand-to-hand combat, he’d knock me into a state of unconsciousness that all the icy water in the world couldn’t revive. I would wake up with the taste of his blood in my mouth, just to repeat the procedure all over again. To say I fantasized about killing him every second of every day was an understatement. Yet I got better, I had no choice. With Bones, it was either improve or die.

  My first indication of increased stamina came after my second week of training. Bones and I fought and I actually didn’t pass out. He still beat me soundly, but I remained conscious throughout. It was a mixed blessing. I had my dignity from not going night-night in the middle of our battle, but then was awake when he fed me his blood.

  “Disgusting,” I spat after being cajoled and then threatened into putting his bloody finger in my mouth. “How can you things live off that?”

  The words left my lips without forethought, as had many before them.

  “Necessity is the mother of all appetites. What you need in order to survive, you learn to love,” he replied shortly.

  “All this blood better not turn me into a vampire. That was not our deal.”

  I felt uncomfortable arguing with his finger jammed in my mouth, and I moved my head backward until it slid wetly out. It was almost a sexual gesture. I blushed as soon as the thought flitted through my mind. He caught the flush, of course. No doubt the reason behind it as well, but just wiped his hand on his shirt.

  “Trust me, luv, you aren’t having nearly enough blood to turn you into a vampire. Since you fret about it all the time, however, I’ll tell you how it works. First, I’d have to drain you to the very point of death. There’s a trick to that, taking enough blood without taking too much. Then, stuffed full of your blood, I’d open my artery for you and let you drink it right back out of me. All of it, and then some. There’s a trick to that, too. You have to be strong to make other vampires, or your would-be protégée sucks you dry and kills you while he or she is changing. New vampires are harder to get off an artery than a starving babe off a juicy teat. These measly drops of blood I’m feeding you aren’t doing more than healing your injuries. They’re probably not even enough to enhance your strength. Now, will you stop griping every time you have to lick a few bits off my pieces?”

  That really caused me to color at the visual that skipped across my subconscious. Seeing it, he ran an aggravated hand through his hair.

  “Now, that’s another thing you have to stop doing. You turn red as a sunset at the slightest hint of innuendo. You need to be playing the part of an aggressive, horny woman! No bloke’s going to believe that when he says boo and you faint from embarrassment. Your virginity’s going to get you killed.”

  “I’m not a virgin,” I countered, and then nearly did faint as predicted.

  His dark brows went up. I turned away, sputtering, “Can we change the subject, please? We’re not girlfriends at a slumber party. I don’t want to be discussing this with you.”

  “Well, well, well,” he drawled, ignoring my plea. “Kitten’s catted around, has she? The way you act, I’m surprised. Chap waiting patiently for you to finish your training? Must be quite a lad, to get you all hot and bothered. Again, didn’t peg you for the experienced type, but then again, you did offer me a taste when we first met. Makes me wonder now if you planned on staking me before or after you got your itch scratched. What about the other vampires? Did they die with a smile on their—”

  I slapped him. Or tried to. He caught my wrist and held it, and caught the other one when I whipped my left palm toward his cheek.

  “Don’t you dare talk to me that way, I’ve heard enough of that crap growing up. Just because my mother had me out of wedlock, our stupid old-fashioned neighbors thought that made her a slut, and me, too, by default. And not that it’s any of your business, since you’ve probably raped villages full of women, but I’ve only been with one person. He dropped me like a bad habit right afterwards, so that was enough to cure me of any desire I had to duplicate the sexual escapades of my peers. Now, I mean it, I don’t want to talk about this again!”

  I was panting in pent-up fury over the wound he’d unknowingly ripped open. Bones released my wrists, and I rubbed them where his fingers had dug into my skin.

  “Kitten,” he began in a conciliatory tone, “I apologize. But just because your ignorant neighbors took their prejudice out on you, or some pimply-faced teenager pulled a one-nighter—”

  “Stop it,” I interrupted, terrified I was going to cry. “Just stop it. I can do the job, I can fake sexy, whatever. But we are not discussing this.”

  “Look, luv—” he tried again.

  “Bite me,” I snapped, and walked off.

  For once, he didn’t offer to take me up on the invitation, and he didn’t follow me.

  At the start of the fourth week, Bones announced we were taking a field trip. Of course, it wasn’t an afternoon jaunt to the local museum. No, he had me driving along a narrow road at midnight with no idea where we were headed. He’d given me the barest direction—turn here, turn there, etc.—and I was nervous. We were in a very rural area, no streetlights along the road. If you wanted to suck someone’s neck dry and then dump the body, this would be an ideal place.

  Then again, if he’d wanted to suck my neck dry and dump my body, the cave was a pretty ideal place as well. Considering all the times I’d been unconscious after our training bouts, he could have dined on me before if he’d wanted to. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him. Hell, I wouldn’t have been able to stop him when I was awake. I had yet to win a single round between us, to my dismay. Bones was so damned strong and fast, fighting against him was like trying to put a leash on a lightning bolt.

  “Turn left here,” Bones said, jarring me from my thoughts.

  I read the name on the sign. Peach Tree Road. It didn’t look like it led anywhere.

  “You know, partner,” I said as I made the turn, “you’re being very secretive. When are you going to tel
l me what this field trip is about? I take it you didn’t just get a sudden urge to go cow tipping.”

  He snorted. “No, can’t say that I did. I need some information from a man who lives out here.”

  The way he said it made it sound like the person wouldn’t be happy to see him. “Look, I refuse to be a part of killing any humans, so if you think you’re going to interrogate this guy and then bury him, you’re wrong.”

  I expected Bones to challenge me or get angry, but he started to laugh.

  “I’m serious!” I said, stomping on the brakes for emphasis.

  “You’ll get the joke soon enough, luv,” he replied. “But let me set your mind at ease. For one, I promise not to lay a single hand on the fellow, and for another, you’ll be the one talking to him.”

  That surprised me. I didn’t even know who the guy was, let alone what questions to ask.

  An eyebrow arched at me. “Will we be driving again anytime soon?”

  Oh. I let off the brake and hit the gas, jolting the truck forward. “Do I get any more details than that? Like, some background on him and what you want to know?”

  “Of course. Winston Gallagher was a railway worker back in the sixties. He also had a side business of making moonshine. One day, a fellow bought one of Winston’s products and then was found dead with it the next day. Winston might have mistaken the alcohol content for that batch, or the sot drank too much. Either way, it all ended the same. Winston was found guilty of murder and condemned to die.”

  “That’s outrageous!” I exclaimed. “With no motive or proof of malice aforethought?”

  “’Fraid the judge, John Simms, wasn’t big on the idea of innocent until proven guilty. He also doubled as the executioner. Right before Simms hanged him, however, Winston swore he’d never let him have another night’s peace. And since that day, he never has.”

  “He hung him?” I repeated. “The man you want me to speak to?”

  “Pull over at that no trespassing sign, Kitten,” Bones directed. I did, my mouth still open in disbelief. “Winston won’t speak to me, since our kinds don’t get along. He’ll talk to you, though. But I warn you, he’s about as cheerful as you currently are.”

  “What part of this am I not understanding?” My tone was waspish. Bitchy, me? “Did you or did you not say that judge hanged him?”

  “Swung him right from the tree jutting over that cliff,” Bones affirmed. “If you look, you can still see rope marks in it. A good many people lost their lives on that wood, but don’t bother speaking to any one of them. They’re residual. Winston’s not.”

  I picked my words carefully. “Are you telling me Winston’s…a ghost?”

  “Ghost, specter, phantom, take your pick. What’s most important is he’s sentient, and that’s rare. Most spooks are only replays of their former selves. Not able to interact, just doing the same thing over and over, like a record stuck on a turntable. Blimey, I’m dating myself; no one uses records anymore. Point is, Winston was so mad when he died, part of his consciousness stayed on. It’s also due to location. Ohio has a thinner membrane for separating the natural from the supernatural, so it’s easier for a soul to stay behind instead of crossing over. This particular area’s like a homing beacon. Five cemeteries forming a pentagram—really, what were they thinking? It’s a road map for spirits, is what it is. Thanks to your bloodline, you should be able to see them, whereas most humans can’t. You should also be able to feel them by now. Their energy’s like a voltage in the air.”

  He was right. I’d felt an invisible hum as soon as I’d turned onto this road, but I thought maybe my leg had fallen asleep or something.

  “What kind of information could a vampire possibly want from a ghost?”

  “Names,” Bones said succinctly. “I want Winston to give you the names of any young girls that have recently died around these parts. Don’t let him tell you he doesn’t know, either—and I’m only interested in deaths by unnatural causes. No car accidents or diseases.”

  He didn’t look like he was kidding, but I had to ask. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  Bones made a noise that was almost a sigh. “I wish it were, but it isn’t.”

  “You’re serious? You want me to go to a cemetery and ask a ghost about dead girls?”

  “Come, now, Kitten, is it really so hard for you to believe in ghosts? You’re half vampire, after all. I wouldn’t think ghosts would be such a stretch of your imagination.”

  Put like that, he had a very good point. “And ghosts don’t like vampires, so I guess I shouldn’t mention my mixed lineage. Do I get to know why ghosts don’t like vampires, by the way?”

  “They’re jealous, since we’re as dead as they are, but we can do as we please while they’re forever stuck as a hazy apparition. Makes them right cranky most of the time, which reminds me…” Bones handed me a bottle of something clear. “Take this. You’ll need it.”

  I held it up and swished the liquid around. “What is it? Holy water?”

  He laughed. “For Winston it is. That’s white lightning. Pure moonshine, luv. Simms Cemetery is right past that line of trees, and you might have to bang about a bit to get Winston’s attention. Ghosts tend to nap frequently, but once you’ve got him up, be sure to show him that bottle. He’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to go stomping through a graveyard brandishing a bottle of booze to rouse an unrestful spirit so that I can interrogate him?”

  “That’s it. And don’t forget this. Pen and paper. Make sure to write down the names and ages of every girl Winston tells you about. If he can include how they died as well, so much the better.”

  “I should refuse,” I muttered. “Because interrogating a ghost was not part of our agreement.”

  “If I’m right, this information will lead to a group of vampires, and hunting vampires is part of our agreement, isn’t it?”

  I just shook my head as Bones gave me the pen, a small spiral notepad, and the bottle of illegal liquor. A vampire was having me go out and wake the dead. Guess it proved I wasn’t psychic, because if someone had told me four weeks ago that I’d be doing this, I would never have believed it.

  Simms Cemetery at midnight wasn’t a soothing place. It had been hidden from the road by thick bushes, trees, and that rocky cliff. True to Bones’s description, a tree still protruded over the precipice, and there was also a large evergreen in the midst of the dilapidated headstones. Seeing some of the dates clarified his earlier comment about Winston being a railway worker in the sixties. He’d meant the 1860s. Not this past century.

  A figure behind me made me whirl with a little scream, my hand whipping out a knife.

  “Are you all right?” Bones immediately called out. He was waiting out of sight beyond the cemetery, with the explanation that this way none of the dead dead would see him. The thought of vampires and ghosts not getting along was just too weird. Even in the afterlife, different species still couldn’t play nice?

  “Yeah…” I said after a beat. “It was nothing.”

  It wasn’t, in fact, but it didn’t require help. A hooded, shadowy form swept past me, literally floating over the cold earth. It went to the edge of the cliff and then disappeared with a faint sound, like a whispered scream. I watched in fascination as moments later it returned out of nowhere and walked the same path, culminating with another ghostly wail.

  To my left, the indistinct outline of a woman was bent over another headstone, sobbing. Her clothing wasn’t of this era, from the hazy glimpses I could catch of it, and then she, too, faded into nothingness. For a few minutes I waited, and then her outline blurred into view again. Soft, almost inaudible cries came from her until they, and she too, vanished once more.

  A record stuck on a turntable, I thought with dark appreciation. Yeah, Bones had given a pretty accurate description of it.

  In the corner of the cemetery, there was a headstone with barely visible etched letters, but I saw a w and a
t in the first name, while the last one started with a g.

  “Winston Gallagher!” I called loudly, rapping on the frigid stone for emphasis. “Come on out!”

  Nothing. A breeze made me tighten my jacket while I shuffled my feet and waited.

  “Knock, knock, who’s there?” I said next, driven to absurdity by what I was doing.

  Something moved at the edge of the trees behind me. Not the cloaked phantom, who was still traveling the same unaltered path, but almost a fuzzy shadow. Maybe it was just the bushes rustling in the wind. I returned my attention to the grave at my feet.

  “Oh, Winsssttonnnnn…” I cooed, fingering the bottle inside my jacket. “I’ve got something for youuuu!”

  “Cursed, insolent warm baggage,” a voice slithered on the air. “Let’s see how fast she can run.”

  I stiffened. That didn’t sound like any person I’d heard before! The air in my vicinity got colder all at once even as I turned toward that voice. The shadow I’d previously observed stretched and changed, taking form, revealing a male in his fifties with a barrellike belly, squinting eyes, brown hair overrun with gray, and untrimmed whiskers.

  “Hear that, do you?” Another odd keening came out of him, eerily echoing. He shimmered for a second, and then the leaves near where he hovered scattered in a burst of concentrated air.

  “Winston Gallagher?” I asked.

  The ghost actually looked over his shoulder, as if expecting to see someone behind him.

  I put more stress into it. “Well?”

  “She can’t see me…” he said, presumably to himself.

  “The hell I can’t!” I marched over in relief, anxious to get out of this creepy place. “Is that your headstone? If the answer’s yes, then tonight’s your lucky night.”